New tables and other things to love

Having the time, if only momentarily, to bake at home again…

Hearing the church bells ring out every hour. At noon, they play for a few minutes. It’s so lovely…

Sleeping like a teenager, which means staying up too late reading and then sleeping in until I am woken up by either the remodeling that is going on upstairs, or preferably, the sun shining in my eyes. My baker’s sleep debt was pretty serious. This is just a temporary reprieve…

Putting the house together, with the idea that soon we will have people over for many great meals and such…

Having good reason to find new pieces of furniture….

Some warmth outside (also probably temporary) and faux-spring trickery…

As you can see, I am adjusting to the relocation, and feeling really quite good about it. The new surroundings have woken up my need to be a part of the burgeoning food community in the East Bay, and I hope to start a really cool new job shortly. (More on that when it comes to fruition.)

I never really moved as a child. We lived in the same house from when I was born until I was around 15 years old. I never wanted to move, even to be closer to friends in town. I loved that we were slightly removed from everyone. No one wanted to have a party at my house, it was simply too far. So, our little spot (or rather large and extensive actually) stayed our own, a refuge of memory and imagination uncontaminated by the strife of  high school drama  and angsty debacle. I never had a boy over to that house, never introduced any teenage loves to my treehouse. It remained, and I guess still does even though its no longer ours, my childhood home, in every sense of those words.

I have moved so much since then, to boarding school in Idyllwild, then to Seattle and back to California (three times–sorry Mom), all over San Francisco then to the North Bay and now to the East. I’ve done my time in the South Bay, staying with my mom in times of heartbreak, joblessness, or just pausing from life to gather my inertia back up. Moving back then usually meant something had gone wrong and it was time to start over. But now, as I am getting older and smarter, and with my love for Ryan and what we have everyday together, moving only means a new house, a different kitchen, maybe some new paint on the walls. I know we’ll probably move many more times in our life together, but it will always be us at the end of the day, sitting in a room full of boxes,  laughing at the ridiculous amount of kitchenware we own.


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